


An Unedited Account of a Forgotten Victor

by orphan_account



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Hunger Games AU, John is a BAMF, Long, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:48:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson (District 8’s Tribute) meets Sherlock Holmes (District 2’s Career Tribute).</p><p>May the odds be *ever* in their favour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to jesse_kips who jumped on board as beta, fixed my little mistakes, and generally helped out enormously. Any mistakes are mine.

Some people say they can’t remember their reaping, but I can. I go back to it all the time. I remember odd things, forgettable things; the white bow in the hair of the girl two rows in front of me, the beetle crawling across the ground near my shoe, the soft, half prayers between brothers and sisters, sisters and sisters, cousins, friends, all saying the same thing; “ _It will be ok._ ”  
  
As we walk towards the square I hear Bill Murray whisper to his twelve year old brother; “Just remember to be like Ossie May Blue and it will all be fine.” _Ossie May Blue_ * is a nursery rhyme about a moth and I distract myself with this puzzling advice until I take my place in line. I stand between Jonas Hollings, whose mother’s arm I once stitched back together, and Bleckly Warner, who is swaying with exhaustion from his all night factory shift.  
  
I look around and notice Sarah some way to my right. She’s wearing her mother’s dress, yellow with a white collar. The buttons gape at the chest in a way they didn’t last year and she’s keeping one arm raised to try and hide it. She catches my eye and we share a look. _This will all be over soon_. It’s the mantra of the districts; we’ve nothing else to hope for.  
  
“ _…and of course we welcome back our former victors who will act as mentors to the tributes. Emily Hudson and Harry Watson_.”  
  
They come onto the stage one after the other. Mrs. Hudson (as my mother insists I call her) is a friend to us since Harry’s victory. She’s wearing a bright purple dress that brings thoughts of the Capitol’s excess to mind but she gets the most applause because everyone feels guilty for voting for her to be tribute in the first Quarter Quell.  
  
Harry, in an emerald suit, gets a fair share of applause too because she’s still a recent victor and up there on the stage she doesn’t look as damaged as I know her to be. Normally everyone’s eyes flick to me when Harry’s name is called, but today there’s a murmur in the crowd because all of us have realised the same thing; Walker Dorling is dead.  
  
Walker was the third victor for our district. He was thirty-five and so addicted to Morphling that his skin hung from his face and his eyes darted around all the time trying to work out where he was. No amount of Morphling ever made his hands unclench or stopped his right leg from twitching. Last year he started screaming during the reaping and had to be led away by the Peacekeepers.  
  
Officially no one knew what had happened to him, but at the same time everyone knew. That’s how our relationship with the Capitol works – they hurt us and we all pretend not to notice the wound.  
  
But these thoughts are dangerous and are quickly brushed away by our district’s escort, Mike Stamford. He makes loud, jolly welcomes to us all as if we’re all there for a party and he’s the host. He’s a rosy-cheeked, fat man with bright red glasses and a suit of so many colours I assume he’s attempting to show off our district by wearing every piece of fabric it’s ever made. I tune him out and focus on my own thoughts.  
  
It’s easy to feel safe for the few months after each reaping; with the knowledge that so far the odds have been in your favour. But the reaping comes nearer and you calculate how many times your name will be in the bowl. Thanks to Harry I’ve never needed the tesserae but my name is still in there six times today. And no matter how many times I tell myself that it won’t be me, not after Harry, it doesn’t mean a thing when Mike Stamford’s hand is hovering over those names.  
  
He chooses the female tribute’s name and waddles back to the microphone painfully slowly. I’m surprised the force of us all listening isn’t strong enough to pull him off the stage.  
  
His face is serious, but in a playful way that is for the benefit for Capitol viewers. “The female tribute for District 8 will be…”  
  
A crackle of paper.  
  
“Sarah Sawyer.”  
  
Funnily enough Jonas Hollings reacts more strongly than I do. He knows her and he knows that I was seeing her. He gives a strange groan of pain. Maybe he feels sorry for me. Maybe he’s sweet on her too.  
  
What can I do but stand there as she sleepwalks up onto the stage. I’m clenching and unclenching my fists so hard that it hurts, but I can’t do anything. If anything could be done then there are thousand mothers who would have done it by now, regardless of the personal cost. If anything could be done I’d be up there doing it.  
  
On the screen Sarah gives her age. Her head stays held up high but her eyes are far away. I see her tug at the front of her dress to hide the gaping buttons from the stares of the nation.  
  
  


\--

  
  
_I was at school with Sarah but my memory of her was lost amongst all the other pink-lipped, chattering girls. Of all the crushes that were thrown back and forth between the sexes, I somehow missed Sarah out. When I asked her if she’d had an unrequited crush on me back then she laughed and said that Riley Jaymes was a foot taller than me and had a squarer jaw.  
  
I met her again six months before the reaping after an accident at Mill 34. I was sent instead of my parents because there’d already been an accidental scalping and a lost arm that morning; there can be up to ten serious accidents a day at the height of production.  
  
The worker was already dead when I arrived in the cavernous mill. His artery had been hit and the supervisor was furious about the blood-soaked cloth and sticky looms. Sarah was sitting next to the dead man looking like she’d gone for a walk in a rainstorm of blood. After the accident she’d tried to stem the flow with scrap cloth and was blaming herself for failing to save him.  
  
Perhaps it’s strange, falling for someone over a dead body, but for the first time I felt there was someone out there who was like me. Sarah knew there was more to life than factories and starvation and she wanted to find out what it was. She put Riley Jaymes behind her and I decided her lips were very nice.  
  
Three days before the reaping we’d met after her evening factory shift and sat by one of the furnaces whilst I rubbed warmth back into her fingers. We talked about our modest, realistic dreams, and made up wild ones. We kissed until the foreman shooed us away.  
  
We could have got married and had children and been fairly happy. Three days before the reaping we’d felt like we had all the time in the world._   
  


  


\--

  
  
That’s what I’m thinking of as I watch her on stage. I’m thinking of how nice it had felt to rub her reddened hands warm by that furnace. I’m thinking of how we’ll never have that again, not even if she wins.  
  
But not for long because Mike Stamford’s hand is dipping into the second bowl and even I lose my focus on Sarah for a moment.  
  
“The male tribute for District 8 will be…”  
  
He takes an age opening the slip of paper.  
  
“John Watson.”  
  
This time the people around me don’t gasp. They pull away from me as though I’m contagious.  
  
“ _Exciting… brother of former victor…_ ” Mike Stamford is still talking but I can’t hear him. His voice is fading in and out.  
  
My body starts working all by itself. I hold my chin up, push my shoulders back so far it hurts, and force my rib cage up and out. As I climb onto the stage I hope I look ready. I hope I look like a winner because I have to be one.  
  
“And let’s see our two tributes shake hands!”  
  
Sarah and I look into each other’s eyes. Gone is the camaraderie of the reaping, instead replaced with sorrow for each other and the underlying acknowledgement that no matter how happy we could have been together here, neither of us will die for the other in the arena.  
  
I take her hand, still raw from her morning shift, and impulsively clasp both hands around it creating a final moment of warmth between us.  
  
  


\--

  
  
_I’ve never cared that Harry overshadowed me but it is true that I can’t remember a time before she was a tribute. I was an underfed, cautious six year old who was proud of the fact I never complained about hunger or cold to my mother.  
  
Harry was fifteen and no one thought she could win.  
  
She was hot-headed but she couldn’t fight beyond childhood scraps, she’d never held a weapon, and in District 8 you’d have to walk for hours to find a tree not choked by smog. Her survival skills were nil.  
  
Still somehow her flaws worked for her. Her temper (and golden hair) came across well in the interviews and she was quick on her feet. Her average score before the games kept her unnoticed by the careers, and she was stronger than she looked. But it was her medical skills that saved her - what should have been a fatal stab wound only incapacitated her for a few days and when Clara (a skilled hunter) found her the two of them became a threat.  
  
It’s that alliance that she was remembered for. District 8 doesn’t go in for alliances much, but Harry’s affair with the District 9’s tribute gripped the nation. Thousands wept when, after a desperate final kiss, they were attacked by the dragon-like mutts that were the showstoppers of that game.  
  
Clara was incinerated.  
  
I don’t remember anything of Clara. I was six; I was scared for my sister. All I remember is the dragons._   
  
  


\--

  
  
I’ve always felt embarrassed when I thought about the Justice Building. The last time I was there I was saying goodbye to my sister. When she reached out to me I flinched away because her hands were so clammy. It’s a stupid thing to be embarrassed about; I doubt she even remembers it, but it’s a moment that I’ve berated myself for a hundred times.  
  
Now I’m standing in the same room and my parents are saying goodbye to me.  
  
Either they are the best possible parents for this situation, or the worst. They’ve been through this before; they know that tears won’t help. But they’ve also been worn down by watching one child go through the Hunger Games and they’ve always assumed I’d be safe. I’m not sure they have enough strength to go through it all again. My mother becomes more lost in her own world each time she goes into another factory to find flesh splattered up the walls and my father is older and frailer than he looks.  
  
He’s trying to give me advice, is reeling off everything he can think of; “Do you remember how to treat burns? Heat ones? Did I show you that?”  
  
“Yes,” I swallow.  
  
“Chemical?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Remember to play up the connection to your sis- to Harry. You’ll get more – get more - sponsors that way.”  
  
“I will.”  
  
Then our time is up and they both reach for me, trying to grab as much as they can to memorize me for after I’ve gone.  
  
  


\--

  
  
On the train to the Capitol Mike Stamford is embarrassed.  
  
“I’m mortified about the facilities,” he apologises. “We’ve been trying to get an upgrade for years. You’re the last district due a new train, you know. Even District 12 has one. District 1 has a conservatory in theirs – with a waterfall and rockery. I can’t believe that District 12’s tributes are currently enjoying the use of nineteen bathrooms while you’ve got to make do with eleven.”  
  
I wonder how many bathrooms he imagines we need. As far as I’m aware there are only five of us on the train. But in a strange way he seems desperate not to offend us.  
  
“Anyway, I’ll go track down your mentors.”  
  
Sarah and I don’t reply. We’re staring at the eggshell blue wallpaper and the dining chairs that look as if they are made from glass. Every surface has some sort of food on it – cakes rest on frosted stands, chicken legs are lined up on silver trays, and there are at least three bottles of champagne on ice in my line of sight.  
  
Sarah reaches out to trace wood carvings and stroke the fabrics. She looks thoughtful rather than full of wonder.  
  
“So this is what the Capitol will be like.”  
  
“Yeah,” I reply. I am surprised at how gruff my voice seems in this delicate carriage. “Only with more bathrooms and rockeries.”  
  
She huffs a laugh; the sort she always does when I’m not funny but she likes me anyway. I step closer and smooth down her thick hair which has fallen out of its bun at some point during her goodbyes.  
  
Maybe my hands on her hair bring back those memories, or else I’m just a reminder of what’s happening to us. I pull her to me, out of habit more than anything else, and she clutches back just as hard. Perhaps we both hope that if we hold on hard enough, this will all go away.  
  
We kiss for comfort. Her face is damp and her body’s shaking, but her mouth is hot and she is the only thing on this train that truly smells of home.  
  
“Well, I wasn’t expecting this.”  
  
Sarah jumps away from me, but I remain still. I know who it is.  
  
Harry is standing in the doorway. She looks unwell – either from the movement of the train, which seems steady, or (more likely) from the alcohol.  
  
She’s far taller than me but I’ve given up feeling miserable about it. She’s even prettier now than she was on her victory tour but the pinching around her eyes and the fume of drink around her hinting that her body is finally demanding payback for all of its abuse. If she was a firebrand before her games, she’s a time-bomb after it.  
  
“What weren’t you expecting?” I ask. “The kiss?”  
  
Harry stares and then replies in an unusually soft voice. “No. I wasn’t expecting you here.”  
  
Really? Because is exactly where I wanted to be. What does she want me to say – _sorry?_  
  
I reply as much, and something flickers in her eyes – maybe even amusement. Then she clutches at the doorframe again and the emotion is gone.  
  
“Mrs. Hudson will be your primary mentor,” she says flatly.  
  
Mrs. Hudson has already stepped around Harry and taken a seat. As Harry speaks she is fussing around a cake-stand.  
  
“But I want you to be my mentor,” I insist. “No offense Mrs. Hudson, but Harry’s my sister.”  
  
“Exactly!” snaps Harry. “How can you expect me to be neutral?”  
  
I can’t believe this. How could there possibly be a question of Harry being my mentor?  
  
“I don’t want you to be neutral! I want you to be on my side! I want you to keep me alive!” My voice lowers into a nasty hiss; “Maybe if you’d stop drinking for a day or two you might manage it!”  
  
What follows is an embarrassing, screeching argument in which I’ll admit Harry isn’t the only one screeching. Very little worth repeating is said and various old family arguments are rehashed.  
  
By the end one thing is clear; my own sister isn’t on my side.  
  
When Mrs. Hudson speaks it’s with a warm voice that makes me want to hug her for being so comforting. “I think you should take him on, Harry.”  
  
“Mrs. Hudson…” Harry whines.  
  
“Or we could ask the young lady. Sarah isn’t it?”  
  
Sarah nods from the seat she jumped into when Harry arrived. She’s absently fondling the velvet curtains. I briefly wonder which of our factories they were made in.  
  
Mrs. Hudson’s tone becomes knitting-needle sharp. “Now you can choose me. I’m not glamorous, but I mentored Harry here and my own darknesses don’t interfere with my skills. Or you can choose Harry who has some alcohol problems and is related to a tribute you are in direct competition with.”  
  
For the first time I see a hint of a victor in this dotty woman whose nagging tone once made me avoid her when she visited our house. She knows how to get what she wants and she gives no indication that Sarah has any real choice in the matter.  
  
Sarah doesn’t object.  
  
I sigh in relief. My first battle is over – I have the mentor I want. But even as I think it my eyes are skirting over the faraway look in Harry’s eyes.  
  


\--

  
  
After dinner we sit in silence. It’s uncomfortable both because of the tension between me and Harry and because Sarah and I were presented with more food than we’d see in weeks at home and ate accordingly; our stomachs weren’t used to it.  
  
Once a significant amount of time has passed, Mrs. Hudson stands and picks up a crystal jar on the bar. It’s full of sweets and she offers one to Sarah with a look that suggests ‘no’ is not a reasonable option.  
  
Sarah takes a turquoise sweet carved into a rose shape. It’s the size of a pebble and shimmers like a precious stone. Under Mrs. Hudson’s watch she pops it into her mouth.  
  
“Shouldn’t you have asked her first?” Harry drawls in the direction of Mrs. Hudson.  
  
I look from one to the other in confusion.  
  
“What good would it do? Ah! There she goes…” Mrs. Hudson’s tone is one usually reserved for a dog having done a good trick and as she speaks Sarah slumps backwards in her armchair. She’s asleep.  
  
“What have you done to her?” I demand.  
  
“Sleepers,” shrugs Harry**. “Everyone uses them in the Capitol. I think most of them don’t know how to fall asleep naturally.”  
  
“They’re harmless,” adds Mrs. Hudson, “and she’ll be glad of a night’s sleep. Want one?”  
  
I decline and watch as Mrs. Hudson harangues Mike Stamford into carrying the girl to her bedroom. They leave with Mike Stamford muttering about his bad back.  
  
Harry and I are alone.  
  
“Look – I know we got off to a bad start,” I begin, as Harry makes no move to start a conversation, “but I need your help.”  
  
She turns to stare out of the window. She looks childish, and she must realise it because she relents and begins to talk. “You should have chosen Mrs. Hudson. Strategically it would have been the smartest choice. I’m the weaker of the mentors, and not particularly motivated to help Sarah win. Instead you’ve just given your rival a fighting chance.”  
  
I gape. “That’s what that was all about earlier?”  
  
She turns to look at me with a cruel smirk. “Of course not. But I’m sure that’s what you’d like to believe.”  
  
Again, the act doesn’t last. The smirk falls and she looks… devastated. I’ve never seen her look so broken before. Her legs are pulled up in front of her and she’s clutching her glass; she looks more like a tribute than a victor. All her fight is gone when I need it most.  
  
I’d imagined that she’d make everything all right for me, that she’d swear that I’d survive no matter what the cost… but now she looks like she needs my comfort more than I need hers.  
  
“Why won’t you help me?” I ask honestly. I’m not angry now. I don’t understand and I want to.  
  
“Because I’ve been exactly where you are. And if Mrs. Hudson had told me the truth… she’d have saved me a lot of pain.”  
  
“What truth?”  
  
She looks up from her glass with an odd, pleading expression. “That winning is worse than dying. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t lying when she said that the victors have their darknesses. She just hides hers better than most of us. You’re a better person than me John. You don’t deserve this.”  
  
I feel my anger rise up again. Does she think I haven’t got it in me to win?  
  
“You don’t think I can do this?”  
  
“I _know_ you can do it. I can see it in your eyes. You’re a survivor and you’re probably better at it than anyone imagines. That’s why you’re still leading on Sarah.”  
  
I balk. “No I’m not! What happened before-”  
  
“I’m not doubting what happened before, but I bet you’ve considered your options since then.”  
  
This cuts a bit close – I have been weighing up how our connection can be used as an advantage and I know that she’s doing the same to me. Only one of us can survive and I know she can be harder of heart than she looks. She has as much potential to be a victor as I do, and has the advantage of seeming a lot weaker than she is. Keeping her as an ally is vital.  
I don’t want to admit this to Harry though.  
  
“I could play it up for you,” Harry offers. “Inter-tribute romances are pretty common, but being in a relationship before the reapings adds that little something extra. Might get you sponsors.”  
  
I shake my head. “I think we’re allies at most now,” I say. “She’s smart.”  
  
“I know that.” Harry smirks. “She fancied you.”  
  
We both laugh a little.  
  
“Does this mean you’ll help me, then?”  
  
Harry shrugs.  
  
“I have to help you, whether I want to or not. I’ll be your mentor, but think on what I said. Sometimes dying in the arena is better. The smartest tributes work that out sooner or later.”  
  
That seems to be as close as we’ll get to an arrangement. She stands up and gives me an unsteady hug. It’s the first I’ve had from her since I was small and now she feels frail. She smells sickly sweet – she’s doused in Capitol scents.  
  
“Now, go to bed. And pretend to be surprised when Mrs. Hudson uses the Sleeper incident tomorrow to lecture you on the dangers of eating anything when you aren’t one hundred per cent certain what it contains.”  
  
  


\--

  
  
It’s a gross overstatement to say I feel positive the next morning, but a combination of my conversation with Harry, a long shower, and more food for breakfast than I see in the average day back home cheers me up immensely.  
  
We’ll be in the Capitol tonight so today will be about working out our plans and familiarising ourselves with the other tributes. I find a crisp brown shirt and green cardigan in the wardrobe and pair them with brown jeans. They must have been made in our district but they’re nicer than anything I’ve ever worn before.  
  
The boots don’t look very sturdy though, so I choose to keep my own boots over the fashionable ones placed out for me.  
  
At breakfast Harry picks at her eggs, Mrs. Hudson smothers everything in sight with honey, and I surround myself with every preserve on the table. Sarah catches my eye as she piles up her plate with sausages and we share a disbelieving glance. Even after we’ve finished Mrs. Hudson makes us eat more; “You’re both so thin. Every extra pound will help you in arena.”  
  
I pretend to be surprised by the stern lecture on not eating anything we aren’t certain about and I hope she won’t test us by lacing lunch with something nasty. Then we switch on the recordings from the other reapings. Mrs. Hudson even hands us notebooks and pens.  
  
They’re shown out of order – the Career districts nearly always win, so the Capitol leaves those last to build up excitement. This means there isn’t much of interest for a while. District 12 is first and offers up two sickly, worn out kids.  
  
“Nothing to them,” says Harry. “The careers will wipe them out.”  
  
I’d been thinking that they didn’t look much different to Sarah and I. Perhaps on their trains their mentors are saying the same things as our terrified faces look out from the screens.  
  
Harry is surprised by the look of determination on the faces from District Eleven though. “He’s huge and she looks like she’d stab anyone in the back.”  
  
I check my notes. The huge guy is called Moran and the girl with the determined mouth is Sally Donovon. Out of the two, I’d rather face him in a fight – he looks like he needs someone to do his thinking for him.  
  
More terrified kids are offered up in District 10 (Molly Hooper and Henry Knight) and it would be depressing if the ache in my chest wasn’t reminding me that I’m in the exact same position.  
  
District 9 is next. “They produce grain. And talk about grain. That’s it. Can you _imagine_ living there?” This is Harry’s contribution. A girl who looks a bit like Sarah is chosen (Violet Hunter) and then a spotty boy who looks like a scarecrow and probably works as one.  
  
The scarecrow has no sooner stepped forward when a voice shouts out;  
  
“I volunteer as tribute.”  
  
It’s not so much a shout, actually, as a drawl. As if the volunteer is doing so for a lark.  
  
The camera wobbles as it tries to track down the voice and eventually settles on a thin boy with (in Mrs. Hudson’s opinion) strange eyebrows. He’s ushered up onto the stage and announces himself as Jim Moriarty aged fourteen.  
  
“ _District 9 isn’t a career district,_ ” the commentator reminds us, “ _there hasn’t been a volunteer before. We’re in uncharted waters folks!_ ”  
  
“And why did you choose to volunteer Jim?” asked the district’s escort. He has orange hair and is wearing a hay coloured suit.  
  
The boy answers with dead eyes. “I was going to wait until I was older. But I got bored.”  
  
“You mean you didn’t plan to do it today?” asks the escort in a shocked tone.  
  
“Not until about two minutes ago.”  
  
We pause the TV to discuss our thoughts.  
  
“Suicidal.” This is Harry’s verdict. “Happens sometimes. They think volunteering is a good way to go.”  
  
I squint at the screen. “He doesn’t look suicidal.”  
  
Sarah nods. “He might have something up his sleeve.”  
  
“He’s fourteen, he’s a pipsqueak – what can possibly be up his sleeve? If the careers don’t get him, everything else will.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Mike Stamford muses, “he’ll have everyone talking about him.”  
  
Harry snorts and switches the TV back on.  
  
District 7 (Lumber) is much the same as the rest, though Harry points out the male - Greg Lestrade’s - strong arms. Mrs. Hudson points out his strong jaw. District 6 (Transport) has a stout, mean looking boy – Jeff Hope. We’re instructed to watch out for his ‘nasty little eyes’ by Mrs. Hudson. District 5 is forgettable other than the girl, Amanda, whose blonde hair catches my attention.  
  
“She’s pretty.” It’s the first thing I’ve said and as soon as I say it I realise that it isn’t the most helpful interjection.  
  
As if I hadn’t already realised this, Sarah, Harry, and Mrs. Hudson are all turn to stare at me.  
  
“Well, she is,” I mutter.  
  
We are thankfully distracted as the commentary moves to District 3 (District Four, as a Career district, is kept back). The technological district shows a frail girl of eighteen, Soo Lin Yao, being practically carried onto the stage and a seventeen year old boy, Andy Galbraith, try to fight back tears.  
  
Harry’s unmoved. “Here we go! The Careers are up next.”  
  
The Career districts actively train their children for the games and it isn’t unusual for a volunteer to step up. The tributes from the Career districts nearly always form alliances in the arena, meaning that they essentially became a pack who control supplies and prowl the area for weaker tributes.  
  
The male tribute from Four (fishing) doesn’t live up to the hype. The young man, whose name is Anderson, looks shocked to be called and if he’s hoping for salvation from a volunteer then none comes. The girl chosen – Kitty Reilly – actually smiles.  
  
“I was planning to volunteer anyway,” she announces. She has a husky voice with a grating edge and practically snatches the microphone from the escort.  
  
Harry sucks in air through her teeth. “He’s devious but not that smart. She’s a loose cannon. She looks far too happy. Don’t you want to just punch her in the face?”  
  
We pause for Harry to get another drink. When I glance over I see that Sarah’s notebook is filled with page after page of spidery writing. Feeling guilty at my mostly blank book I set about putting my own opinions of the candidates down.  
  
District 1 (luxury items) is shown next. A striking girl is called – Irene Adler. Her face shows no emotion at all. I don’t comment on her looks this time.  
  
“District 1 isn’t known for its smart women,” sniffs Harry. “They use their bodies to make the male careers do their bidding and get sponsors interested. They can be pretty lethal with weapons though.”  
  
A pleased looking boy volunteers next. Sebastian Wilkes.  
  
“More confidence than skill,” is Harry’s judgement.  
  
“ _So here we are folks. The final reaping of the 54th Hunger Games, and as we all know, District 2 has the highest number of victors of any district. Volunteers are likely today._ ”  
  
We watch and wait as the narration drags out the tension. After a pause that seems to go on for several hours a name is finally called and a volunteer steps up. She’s so beautiful that I think if I’d mentioned it this time everyone might have agreed. I barely catch that her name is Anthea and that she’s seventeen.  
  
Statistically males from District 2 win the most and the tension is built up even more for this reaping. No one thinks for a second that the small boy who is actually chosen will end up as the tribute.  
  
Right on cue a volunteer calls out. He does so with a strangely tilted head, as if he too is volunteering on a whim like the boy from District 9.  
  
He’s almost as striking as Anthea and I wonder why it is that most tributes from Career districts are good looking. As he walks onto the stage I note how thin he is, but when the camera goes in for a close up there’s a spark in his eyes that would have been lost if he’d spent a long time living with hunger. It reminds me of Sarah when I first saw her by that body, and even as I think it I realise how strange that sounds. There’s a quirk to his lips as if he’s already won a battle just by volunteering.  
  
“And what’s your name?” asks the glitter covered escort.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
“Stupid name,” mutters Harry. “Skinny too. Make a note of that.”  
  
“His stupid name or his weight?” asks Sarah with a wryly raised brow.  
  
I shush them and lean forward.  
  
“And your age?”  
  
“Seventeen.”  
  
The escort pushes the microphone towards him one last time.  
  
“So why have you volunteered today?” she asks.  
  
The boy gives that strange, quirking half smile again.  
  
“To annoy my brother.”  
  
Harry flicks off the television before I can protest.  
  
“And there we have it kids. Statistically speaking, _he_ is your most dangerous rival.”  
  


\--

End of Chapter 1

 

  
**Fic Notes:**  
  
*Ossie May Blue is a popular nursery Rhyme amongst district children:  
  
 _Ossie May Blue  
May fly up high  
To the whitest moon  
In the darkest night  
  
But Ossie May Blue  
Can’t see the blue sky  
Or the yellow sun  
But, why, why, why?_  
  
  
**Sleepers © were popular sleeping aids used in the capital during that period, sending the user to sleep instantly. Famous for their sponsership of the Hunger Games and their marketing slogan of ‘ _How do you sleep at night_?’, they became very unfashionable due to their incompatibility with many weight supressing aids and after a series of Capitol public announcements re-educating the citizens on how to sleep naturally, they were withdrawn ten years before the second rebellion.   
  
****  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience in waiting for this chapter. My beta (the lovely jesse_kips) was away over Easter and then I was away for a week without internet access.

I should have appreciated the relative freedom of the train, because when we arrive in the Capitol we discover that our every moment will now be controlled by someone else. We have to be prepared for the opening ceremony, train ourselves in survival and battle, and be judged and scored all while still coming across well in our individual interviews. Any moment we aren’t doing any of that will be spent preparing for the next task and endlessly tweaking our strategies.  
  
During all this we have to face the often bewildering lifestyles and technologies Capitol. We are expected to understand the pointless and complex gadgets and must try not to stare at the array of grotesquely modified people around us.  
  
Being away from home is harder than I expected. Back home I understood the world around me and in my own small way I thrived in its hardship. Now I’m surrounded by luxury and comfort and yet I’m in more danger than ever.  
  
It’s hard not to get annoyed at the people here too; if their looks are grotesque then their personalities are worse. It seems every person I meet is vain, shallow, and thinks of nothing but themselves. A fine example of this happens on my first day when I meet the woman responsible for my appearance.  
  
I’m naked. My skin is pink from being scrubbed with sweet smelling salt and slick from being soothed with lotions. Only Harry’s earlier warning to keep calm at all costs is keeping me docile.  
  
My stylist is gargantuan and wearing purple gown that trails several feet behind her. I wonder for a moment how it stays clean, but then I’ve not seen a single speck of dirt in the Capitol. Her hair is purple and her lipstick is pale lavender flecked with silver.  
  
“I’m Conni, my darling. Conni Prince. And it’s my job to turn you from a bland boy, with a bland face, from a bland district, into someone worth noticing. I’ve styled seven victors, you know. That’s a record. I was the stylist for District 1 for seventeen years.” Her voice becomes brittle even though her smile remains fixed. “But now _brighter_ and _younger_ stylists must have their chance and I’ve been assigned to you.”  
  
I wonder at my luck in getting yet another team member who seems to need support from me rather than the other way around. Will Haydon Melwark cry on my shoulder during the interviews?  
  
To give her some credit, Conni has thrown herself into her duties. Her plan for the opening ceremony is to represent the weaving done in our district by having outfits in which shimmering threads thicken into cloth. This means my shoulders and chest will be bare and the threads will finally become opaque around my naval.  
  
She explains all this with breathless excitement but I cannot miss the way her eyes flicker to my shoulder throughout her speech. She looks both nervous and repulsed by the scar there. I have already experienced this disgust – one of the women scrubbing me down actually shrieked at it – and yet her skin was _dyed cerulean blue._  
  
“Will my shoulder present a problem?” I ask.  
  
My words may sound neutral but my tone is cold and unapologetic. It flusters Conni.  
  
“Oh no! Of course not. It’s just… I designed the outfit before I knew of your deformity...”  
  
She trails off. I think the subject is finished but before Conni leaves she can’t seem to stop herself from asking. Her tone is perky, as though she has forgotten my coolness on the subject; “How on earth did you get it? Was it some horrific factory accident? Because that sort of thing would make a great story.”  
  
She reaches out and runs a finger along the line without even asking. The trail she leaves with her nail starts itching at once.  
  
“It’s not important,” I say through gritted teeth.  
  
  


\--

  
  
  
Too soon we are in the stables readying ourselves for the opening ceremony. I am completely surrounded by people, horses, and excited voices. Stylists and mentors dart around but I’m not interested in them. I’m looking at the other tributes – this is the first time I’ve seen any of them in the flesh.  
  
Sarah is standing next to me. She can barely walk because she’s wearing a dressmakers cage** as a skirt. Conni has made a new addition to our costumes; a giant silver needle now spears each of them. Mine is across my back and Sarah’s is piercing her headdress.  
  
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone sew with a needle,” says Sarah as she is helped up onto our chariot. “Or use a dressmaking cage.”  
  
I shrug. “They do hand stitching in District 1. Conni probably thinks that’s how all clothes are made. Besides… I don’t think anyone cares for accuracy.”  
  
Once we are both in place I focus on looking at the other tributes.  
  
I am relieved to see that my costume is nowhere near the silliest. The two from District 9 (Lestrade and Ella) are practically naked other than artfully arranged bark-like body paint. Anderson and Kitty are wearing plastic fish tanks moulded to their body shapes with live fish swimming around inside (offering the hopeful viewers tantalising hints of skin).  
  
Everyone is looking around at each other under the guise of looking at the costumes. I am not alone in staring at Sherlock Holmes. If he wasn’t already a favourite to win his expression of fury would attract attention. He looks like he has been forcibly dragged here and is protesting loudly. It isn’t, I think, as though his costume is that bad. Jim Moriarty has been forced into what looks like a windmill (from a distance he looks like he’s wearing a daisy on his head) and he seems to be taking it well enough. In comparison the tight chainmail outfit Sherlock is wearing looks positively normal.  
  
“Suppose he thought he was above this circus when he volunteered,” sneers Harry as she notices where I’m looking.  
  
“Mm,” I grunt.  
  
Conni prods us into a good position. “Everyone says he’s a nightmare to work with! But never mind him,” she says with pleasure. “Everyone is looking at you two.”  
  
“They’re all looking at John’s scar,” snaps Harry. She scowls at Conni. ”I thought I told you to make sure it was covered.”  
  
This begins a squabble between them over the practicalities of redesigning a costume in six hours.  
  
“It can’t hurt to have it on display…” wheedles Conni.  
  
“Anything that marks John out as a threat to the others does more harm than good!”  
  
I look from one to the other, willing them both to shut up. It has no effect.  
  
Thankfully Sarah provides a distraction. She leans across to whisper to me; “Sherlock is watching you.”  
  
Instantly I turn to look. He’s stopped protesting and is climbing up onto his chariot. His back is to me.  
  
  


\--

  
  
The opening ceremony is nothing worth remembering. It’s just noise and people and I don’t feel myself again until I’m in bed and wearing the least ridiculous nightwear I can find.  
  
Day two, tomorrow, is when training begins and is the only chance we’ll have to learn skills and weigh up the abilities of the other tributes. My mind isn’t on them though; I’m worrying over my own lack of skills.  
  
I can’t use a weapon, I can’t light a fire, and what I know about hunting or gathering can be written on the head of a pin. I’m going to be a laughing stock.  
  
“Can’t sleep?”  
  
I’m jolted back to reality by Harry’s voice. She is standing in the doorway and her silk nightdress looks rumpled – she’s already been to bed.  
  
I shake my head.  
  
“Me neither. You should take a Sleeper.”  
  
“You haven’t.”  
  
She shrugs. “If _I’m_ tired tomorrow it doesn’t matter.”  
  
“It’s not going to matter much for me either,” I say bitterly and slump backwards into the position I’d been in before she startled me.  
  
She doesn’t reply. Instead she pads around the enormous bed and slides in next to me. She has to inch closer several times before we are close enough to feel each other’s body heat.  
  
When I was very little and our family lived in two rooms in the tenements, Harry and I used to share a mattress together. I was too young for whispered conversations then, but until this moment I’ve never realised just how much I missed the sensation of sharing that space.  
  
“Don’t get obsessed with how you appear in training. If you look like an idiot then that gives you an advantage. Just pay attention to the others. Trust me.”  
  
Her voice is rough and warm from the pillow beside me. She reaches out hesitantly and rubs my shoulder through the blankets.  
  
It’s this last phrase – _trust me_ – that bothers me. I haven’t forgotten her initial reluctance to help me. I still don’t fully understand why she’s changed her attitude and perhaps a small part of me doesn’t believe she has.  
  
“Why should I trust you? You said my death would be better.”  
  
To my surprise her hand doesn’t pull away and she doesn’t leave. After a silence she starts speaking; “I _never_ wanted you to die. I never wanted you to know what I’ve been through. But you are here now and all I can do is hope that you choose the least painful path.”  
  
“And dying is better than being a victor?”  
  
I can’t believe that.  
  
“I think there are a lot of victors who realise that too late,” says Harry. “Whatever the Capitol says… I don’t think there’s a single victor who isn’t damaged beyond repair.”  
  
“There’s Mrs. Hudson,” I say.  
  
Harry snorts. “Oh John. You really believe that, don’t you?”  
  
Her derision stings and I’m irrationally angry with her. She thinks that I’m naïve, but she hasn’t spent the last five years watching adults and children die with their organs hanging out of their flesh and limbs trapped in machinery. She’s given-up because of twenty-three people dying – I’m still standing after the deaths of hundreds.  
  
And what pisses me off most is that it’s not even the death and destruction of those tributes that she’s damaged about. Just one. “You’re only bitter because of Clara.”  
  
I regret it instantly. All my righteous anger disappears in the short pause after the words are out of me and is replaced by a mixture of shame and embarrassment. I know that I’m right but I regret saying it.  
  
To my surprise she doesn’t shout, or even begin to cry. She just climbs out of bed in silence. She doesn’t even look upset; it’s as if she’s just gripped by a desire to be… away.  
  
I think she will leave without saying anything, but she pauses at the door and speaks with more calmness and dignity than I expect;  
  
“I’m not trying to sabotage you John. If you want to live I’ll do everything I can to help you. If you want me to be a mentor and not a sister, then that’s what I’ll do.”  
  
  


\--

  
  
  
I couldn’t bring myself to take a Sleeper even after the fight. The next morning the world is blurry and I don’t have the energy to do more than prod at breakfast with a fork.  
  
Sarah doesn’t seem to be hungry either and I’m almost grateful for my exhaustion – I don’t have the energy to be nervous.  
  
Harry forces me to drink some coffee while Mrs. Hudson forces Sarah to eat something. By the time Mike Stamford leads us down to the training area we both look passable.  
  
We’re free to choose which subjects we want to train ourselves in. The careers all swarm on the weaponry stations, leaving the rest of us to choose something else or face their derision. In the end I decide to start with learning basic survival skills.  
  
I’m joined by the District 3 tributes Soo Lin and Andy and the instructor sets about teaching us to build a fire. I miss part of the demonstration when Sherlock takes a place beside me. I’d assumed he’d be messing around with weaponry and his presence throws me off.  
  
We are told to take it in turns to practice and we crouch down in pairs to pile up twigs and dried leaves. It’s the first time I’ve had a chance to talk to a tribute from another District and, for some reason, Sherlock has been the one I’ve been most interested in from the start.  
  
“I’d have thought all the careers knew this stuff already,” I say.  
  
I half expect that he’ll be too aloof to answer but he does.  
  
“They teach us to fight for the supplies – not to survive without them. It’s a weakness that’s the careers often overlook and the other tributes rarely exploit.”  
  
We both glance at the weaponry area. Irene is wielding a machete with a look of delight, Kitty is showing off her lightning fast reaction times in hand to hand combat, and Sebastian Wilkes smirks across at us as light glints off the dagger in his hand.  
  
“Well once they’ve slaughtered everything in sight and eaten through all the supplies, it’s a comfort to know that they’re going to be completely fucked,” I snipe.  
  
Sherlock laughs. It’s a sort of huff. It surprises me and I think it surprises him too.  
  
I am about to ask him what he meant when he said he’d volunteered to annoy his brother, but I don’t get the chance. He stands.  
  
“Must dash - I need to refresh myself on stitching a wound. I’m sure it will be too basic for you.”  
  
I blink. “Why would you think that?”  
  
“Because your medical knowledge is superior to everyone else in this room. Even the trainers won’t have had as much experience as you – they’ve never had to amputate a leg on an awake and screaming patient while crouching under blood covered machinery. And your scar tells me just how dedicated you are to your craft.”  
  
He turns, leaving me to gape after him. “How do you know about any of that?” I call after him.  
  
He doesn’t reply.  
  


  


\--

  
Later I do go over to the weapons area. I’m the first of the non-Careers to do so and I’m well aware that I’m being watched.  
  
“Teach me how to fight,” I instruct the trainer. It’s a big ask and so I quickly clarify myself; “not with weapons. There’s not enough time. Just the basics of hand to hand combat.”  
  
If Harry could see me she’d be furious. She specifically told me to avoid this area knowing it would expose my weaknesses to the other tributes. But it’s not like they don’t know that the tributes from the non-career districts haven’t been trained to fight, and a part of me wants to know whether I can injure with the steadiness that I normally use to heal.  
  
After an initial bout which ends with me on the floor with the wind knocked out of me; the instructor sets about teaching me. I ignore the amusement I’m creating for the careers (Anthea and Sebastian Wilkes aren’t hiding their laughter) and focus instead on trying to work out the different between a feint and a genuine attack.  
  
After two hours (by which time I’m so exhausted I can barely stand) I manage to land a hit on the instructor and he begrudgingly admits that my reaction times are ‘pretty fast’.  
  
“Give it six months and you’d be lethal,” he adds.  
  
I don’t have six months. I swear to myself that by the end of the three days I’ll beat him.  
  
  


\--

  
  
_It’s the big media event before we go into the Arena tomorrow. The interviews. Yesterday the judges gave us all a score based on our abilities and this is the final chance we’ll have to win the audience over. We’ve all spent hours rehearsing answers and working on our strategies.  
  
Am I only one who has suddenly forgotten everything?  
  
Haydon Melwark* is even more bloated and scarred in person than he appears on screen. His rolls of fat are barely contained by his powder blue suit and every patch of visible skin – including his bald head - is scarred. Even with his extensive surgery he looks ancient.  
  
He isn’t a natural interviewer. He was a soldier who fought for the Capitol during the rebellion. He’s a fierce Capitol supporter and seemed to take the rebellion as a personal affront. His brief in the early days was to make the tributes look bad. He’d quiz them on their family’s part in the rebellion and produce evidence against them, making it clear to everyone watching that the tributes were getting what they deserved.  
  
Now he can’t really do that. The rebellion seems like ancient history to the tributes - our parents were little more than children during it. As a result any difficult questions he offers are designed to please the gossip hungry viewers and he asks them with contempt.  
  
I’m waiting for my interview and wearing a particularly uncomfortable white mesh outfit. Conni is determined to show off my scar, if only to annoy Harry.  
  
Irene is the first interviewee and it doesn’t take much for her to win the viewers over. She talks about her rope tying skills and flashes a muscled thigh at the audience. Harry might have been right about her using her looks rather than her brains.  
  
Sebastian Wilkes talks a big game and sounds like he’s making conversation over a relaxed dinner. Annoying as he is, I remember the ease with which he used that dagger.  
  
I don’t notice much of Anthea’s interview (other than her tight silver dress) because I’m waiting for Sherlock’s. He’s next and he looks more uncomfortable than I expect. I think Harry’s right about one thing – he isn’t enjoying the whole media circus that comes with this. No one does - but he looks like it’s eating him up inside.  
  
“So tell us about your family, Sherlock.” It’s more of an order than a question.  
  
“I don’t really have much of a family.”  
  
“Well that’s not true. You mentioned your brother at the reaping. He’s the mayor of District 2.” Again, it’s an interrogation.  
  
“Yes he is. He was against me volunteering, but he’d be a fool if he really thought that I wouldn’t. And he may be many things, but he’s not a fool.”  
  
I can see that Sherlock’s not really winning the audience over. He speaks factually and with an arrogance that doesn’t do much to endear him. He hasn’t made eye contact with either Haydon or the camera and I get the sense that it’s more annoyance with the procedure than shyness. With another interviewer he might have been given the benefit of the doubt, but Haydon has no real interest in making him look good.  
  
“Are there any alliances beginning to form within the group so far?”  
  
“We aren’t supposed to discuss our game strategy. I’d be moronic if I did.”  
  
“And you’re not a moron, right?” Haydon says it with a snide air.  
  
Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice the tone. “I’m not, no.”  
  
“What do you think of your competitors then? Are you still sizing them up?”  
  
For some reason I expect him to say that he thinks we’re all idiots. Instead he shrugs.  
  
“I know everything I need to know. At least two are intentionally hiding their skills, and -” his expression softens a little, “ – I think one has a lot more potential than they’ve been given credit for.”  
  
Does he mean me?  
  
“Are you going to tell us who?”  
  
For the first time during the interview, Sherlock actually engages with Haydon. He gives a dangerous smile. “Where would be the fun in that?”_   
  
  


\--

  
On the third day of our training sessions we are individually judged. We are giving the use of a training room and the judges watch as we try to impress them.  
  
The tributes who can throw knives throw knives, the tributes who can hunt set traps, but no one tells you what the tributes who can’t do much of anything do; an interpretive dance of how we’re going to die horribly?  
  
Sarah is planning on climbing the rock wall – she turned out to be pretty agile. I have no idea what anyone else is doing, but from the look on Sherlock’s face as we wait to go in, he’s looking forward to it.  
  
Harry has told me to mix some berries together into a healing paste to show off my medical skills. While this sounded alright when she said it, now that I’m here the idea of handing the judges a bowl of goo and telling them it’ll reduce swelling seems like the stupidest idea on the planet. My self-defence skills might have improved in the last few days but they’re still laughable to anyone who has been properly trained. I have no ideas at all.  
  
But one by one people are going inside. Now there’s only Sarah left to go and if I don’t think of something soon I’m going to get the lowest score ever handed out.  
  
  


\--

  
  
_I feel sick as I take my seat next to Haydon. I’ve never had so many people looking at me before, in fact I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people in one place. All the people in our district couldn’t fill this amphitheatre.  
  
I try and remember all of the advice but it’s slipping away from me.  
  
Haydon’s look is contemplative. “So everyone at home is familiar with your sister – the former victor Harry Watson. Is she helping you prepare?”  
  
I swallow. I don’t know what an ashen face looks like, but I certainly feel like I have one. “She’s my sister. She’s just bossing me around like normal.”  
  
This would have got a weak laugh from someone like Sarah (who has just wowed the audience with her wit and charm) but the audience cackles appreciatively.  
  
“And I hear you’ve been taking an interest in your fellow tribute?”  
  
Sherlock?  
  
Thank every deity in the universe that I don’t actually say that out loud. My brain catches up just in time.  
  
“Sarah and I were friends back home. It’s difficult. It’s painful.”  
  
The audience ‘awws’.  
  
“Everyone has been very curious about that scar of yours. What’s the story?”  
  
I wince. I hate this story. It makes me look stupid and it brings back memories of my parents yelling themselves hoarse at me, my mother sobbing…  
  
It also brings back the memories of my judging yesterday and_ Harry _yelling herself hoarse at me._  
  
  


\--

  
  
  
Inside the training room I find the judges in high spirits but with a tinge of boredom that makes me feel sorry for the tributes yet to come.  
  
I wait for them to look at me with the terrifying knowledge that when I have their full attention I’ll have nothing to fill it with. I cast one final, desperate eye around at the items laid out for us. Weapons (which I can’t use), materials for traps (which I can only set after three or four attempts), berries, leaves, some basic supplies, and various targets.  
  
 _What can I do? What’s the one thing I’m any good at?_  
  
And then the answer comes to me.  
  
I walk slowly over to the table of supplies and take a few items and then go the weapons, eventually deciding on a short dagger. With these items I return to the mat, sit down, and lay them out in a careful line.  
  
I’m not scared. This surprises me. More than anything I’m grimly satisfied that no one else will have done this before.  
  
I peel off my shirt and chuck it over my shoulder, then look down at my skin to choose a spot. My stomach. Above the belly-button.  
  
I take the dagger and place the tip about two inches above and to the left of the belly button. Then in one slice I drag the dagger across my belly, leaving a cut about six inches wide.  
  
It’s a deep flesh wound, but not enough to do serious damage. At home it would be a problem but here in the Capitol is can be fixed in minutes by a machine. Blood immediately begins to seep from it and I’m glad my trousers are black.  
  
I pick up the needle and thread from the supplies and carefully thread the cotton through it. It’s funny, I think, Conni was right. A needle represents me better than I thought.  
  
Ah, and there’s the pain. _Oh it huur – AH! - huurts._ And it’s only going to get worse. I know from experience.  
  
I look up at the judges; they’re certainly paying attention now. Several mouths are open and Mr. Reichenbach, this year’s gamemaker, looks torn between calling for help and watching in fascination.  
  
I take the needle and begin the painful process of stitching myself back up. The quicker it’s done the less blood I’ll lose, so I don’t hang around.  
  
When I’m finished I mop the blood off of my skin, bind myself up with the bandage from the supplies, and stand. My head is swimming and putting one foot in front of the other makes everything from my neck down burn with pain. But I’m going to leave that room under my own power if I have to do so on my hands and knees.  
  
“Gentleman,” I croak out, “thank you for your attention. I apologise for the mess.”  
  
I turn and stagger to the door.  
  


\--

  
  
_I look down at my scar though that’s not much help since I can only see the edge of it from this angle. The part I can see is still dark pink, though it has faded a little over time. It stretches from my underarm across my pectoral and ends in the centre of my chest.  
  
“I got it when I was eleven. I… was learning everything I could from my parents who are good at patching up injured workers. But I had nothing to practice on and I needed to know if I was good enough. So I… I got a knife and I sliced my shoulder open to see if I could repair it.”  
  
“Why?” demands Haydon. He clearly thinks it’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. The audience is silent.  
  
“Because if I couldn’t trust myself to save my own life… how could I let anyone else trust me? And it was worth it. It hurt a lot and my parents were angry but I didn’t let anyone help me. For two months I did everything to care for it until it healed.”  
  
“You risked your life to prove you were good at healing people?”  
  
I can tell my story has impressed the audience but Haydon still sounds like he doesn’t understand why.  
  
Jim Moriarty’s words suddenly come back to me. _What else is there to do?  
  
  
\--  
  
  
“Are you INSANE?” Harry is shrieking. “ONCE WASN’T ENOUGH?!”  
  
We’re in our rooms after the judging. Our scores will shortly be announced.  
  
“It’s fine,” I sigh. “They sent me to medical afterwards and they used one of those machines on me. It was completely healed in ten minutes. Why can’t we have one of those in our district?”  
  
“Oh even District 1 couldn’t afford one of those,” says Mrs. Hudson regretfully.  
  
“They’d have been within their rights to deny you treatment,” Harry grinds out. “Tributes aren’t allowed treatment for any purposeful self-harm before the games.”  
  
“I did it to show them my skills. It was that or make them a bowl of herbs.”  
  
“A fat lot of good that’d be if you went into the arena practically disembowelled.”  
  
We are shushed by Sarah. The scores are about to be announced. Once we have our scores all that’s left is the interview and then the Arena.  
  
In 48 hours I could be dead.  
  
I focus on the commentator who spends several minutes building up the excitement before finally parting with the scores. One is the lowest and twelve is the highest. I’ve never seen anything higher than an eleven.  
  
Irene is first and gets a nine, which is average for a career. Sebastian Wilkes gets a nine too.  
  
“Told you Wilkes was all bluff,” mutters Harry. She has flopped down onto the couch to seethe in comfort.  
  
Anthea gets a ten, which surprises me (though I haven’t paid her much attention) and I find myself excited for Sherlock’s score. I wonder what he did for the judges.  
  
“District 2, Sherlock Holmes. Ten.”  
  
A good career score then. I admit I’d hoped it would be even higher, though why confuses me. It’s not like I’d seen him do anything amazing other than know a few facts about my life, but there’s something about him that interests me.  
  
Which, I tell myself, is ludicrous. He’s my enemy, after all. I should be sorry he got a high score at all.  
  
There are some fairly low scores next, and then Kitty with another ten, and Anderson with an eight. I tune out the next lot of low scores until we get to Greg, who is the final tribute before Sarah and I have our scores read out.  
  
Greg gets an eight.  
  
Sarah’s next. She hugs a cushion nervously.  
  
Eight.  
  
We congratulate her. She looks hugely relieved. I start to feel sick because I’m next.  
  
I wait. The pause for mine seems longer than the others even though I know it can’t be.  
  
“District 8. John Watson…” the commentator announces.  
  
“Ten.”  
  
I’ve just been given a score higher than most of the careers.  
  
  


\--

 

End of Chapter 2  
TBC

  
**Fic Notes:**   
  
*Haydon Melwark was the tribute interviewee from the very first games until he was replaced by Ceasar Flickerman for the 66th Hunger Games. Haydon had fought for the Capitol during the rebellion and was a fierce supporter of punishing the districts. He was known for ripping apart any ‘gameplan’ the tributes tried to use in the interview and taking delight in exposing their true emotions.

**[Dressmaking cage. ](http://thecolorainbow.files.wordpress.com/2009/12/cage_crin2.jpg)  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe you all an apology for the wait for this chapter. Real life hit and hit HARD, and then the guiltier I felt for not writing the less I wrote. But I try never to abandon readers and so here I am again.
> 
> Thank you to my beta (jesse_kips) who didn’t give up on me!

The games differ wildly from one year to the next. Fighting hypothermia in an ice covered arena can big the biggest threat one year while the next year tributes might have to avoid deadly swamps in their fight for survival. Once there was an arena entirely devoid of anything weapon-like, poisonous, or even vaguely dangerous – which sounds fine until you realise that the only way to kill the other tributes is to do so with your bare hands.

Personally I think the obviously dangerous arenas are the best - you know straight away what you’re dealing with. The ones that look normal can take you by complete surprise.

Despite this the routine leading up to the games stays exactly the same. It’s a fixed routine that the mentors know to the last second. If anything upsets the routine they begin to get nervous.

They are certainly getting nervous now. The interviews have barely finished and we have been asked to stay behind for a meeting with the head gamemaker.

 “Is there some kind of problem?”

“We have a schedule to stick to…”

“It’s just a formality,” the unfortunate lackey informs us.

We wait another two minutes for the head gamemaker to arrive. He descends the nearby glass staircase slowly but gracefully and stands to address us from the third step up.

“Thank you for your patience,” Riechenbach says smoothly, “I understand how busy you all must be.”

Mrs. Hudson gives a noticeable huff of annoyance.

“This year we are adding an element of luck into the games and before we can begin we need the candidates to roll their dice, so to speak.”

I glance around. Most of the tributes look nervous, but they aren’t scandalised by this. The mentors on the other hand… they’re acting like this is outright cheating.

“Candidates can’t have any knowledge of the planned games!” Harry bellows above the rabble.

“I assure you – please settle down! – I assure you that the tributes will only reach into a bag and draw out a tile to decide their fate. The images are not connected to the games – they will gain no knowledge from it.”

He gestures to two gamemakers who have appeared behind us. Each one is holding a velvet bag. I wonder briefly if they were made in our district before I force myself to focus.

“The same tiles are in both – Verona is holding the bag for the female tributes and Hale is holding the one for the males. If the tributes can go up in their own time please.”

No one moves. I glance around and see most of the others looking around too, waiting to see who will make the first move.

An irritated huff from behind me makes me jump. Sherlock is so close behind my shoulder that I can almost feel his body heat. Has he moved closer to me?

“Oh let’s just get it over with,” he says imperiously.  

He brushes past my shoulder and stalks towards Hale. He plunges his hand into the bag and draws out a single blue tile. We strain to see what it is.

“It’s just got a letter on it. ‘A’,” Sherlock announces after a careful examination. I wonder whether he has figured out more than he’s letting on, but he doesn’t say anything more.

“Animals?” whispers one mentor.

“Avalanche?”

“Attack?”

“Never mind him. Me next,” demands Kitty. She pushes forward to take a tile from a second bag.

She gets a tile with a star on it, shrugs, and then moves to see what else is drawn.

In turns we go up. Jim collects an apple shape – as does Soo Lin. Sarah’s has a stick figure on it, the same one is drawn by Anderson. Irene takes the matching letter ‘A’.

Moments later it’s my turn. The tiles are cool against my hand and I will myself to pick a good one, whatever a good one might be.

What I draw – good or bad – is a tile with five tiny teardrop shapes on it. They are arranged the way they might be on a dice. _Seeds, perhaps?_

I take my place in the group again and watch for the same tile to be drawn by the girls. It’s the last one to be drawn and is collected by Molly.

\--

I could talk about the preparation for the arena – but it’s both boring and miserable. I’m exhausted after another sleepless and Sleepers free night so I react to the various prodding, dressing, and tests with zoned-out obedience. I end up dressed in thick black trousers, a grey t-shirt, and a waterproof jacket. The material is tough but it’s not very warm.

All too soon we are being electronically tagged by means of an implant and the clock seems to be speeding forward faster than a motor.

And then there’s no time left.

\--

There is only one way to describe the sensation of the journey up into the arena and it's an unpleasant one for the reader. For those who have already felt it I know you’ll do anything to avoid the feeling again, and for those who haven't it's an unfair thing to ask anyone to imagine.

Any normal person has considered their deathbed, imagined themselves old and ill. They've wondered what their last words might be, or their last meal. And then they’d shelved those thoughts and consider them something not to be worried about for a long time.

But for a moment consider the inevitability of it. Unless you are to die in some unforeseen accident then that vision _will_ come to pass. You will end up in that bed, facing the reality of it, and there will be no way of ignoring those thoughts because you'll be there, it _will be happening_.

Consider it long enough and your heart will begin to race and your mind will try and look for an escape route - some way to make it not be happening. But of course it will happen, it WILL, it WILL... think about it long enough and you'll end up dizzy with terror.

That's what it feels like on the journey up into the arena. It's really happening. No way out. No way out.

I only have two choices, to die or to win and the only thought in my head is ‘don’t die don’t die don’t die’. 

I think I’ll accept anything if it means I live.

Harry may be right when she says I’ll regret that, but as I rise up into the arena I think there is one thought in all of our heads.

_Do anything. Do whatever it takes. Keep death away from me._

\--

We enter the arena on a metal disk that rises up through the ground, leaving the twenty four of us standing in a semi-circle. We cannot move from our place before the games begin unless we want to face immediate death – the metal disk acts as a landmine. We have sixty seconds to acclimatize before the cannons start the games.

In front of us is the cornucopia, a steel shell the size of a shack, is filled with items we'll need if we want to survive. Packages and weapons are littered around it - the ones nearest us are the basic things like blankets, rope, and bandages, but if we want the good stuff, the items that we’ll need to survive (weapons and food) we need to venture closer to the cornucopia.

The best strategy for a non-career is to get as far away from the cornucopia as soon as possible and avoid the bloodbath that inevitably follows. The initial battle can go on for hours and can wipe out as many as half the competitors. Harry has drummed my plan of action into me - use this time to get an idea of location and then run like hell into the most secluded looking area.

We are standing on the edge of a canyon. Beyond the cornucopia the ground drops away and even though there is no river in sight we can see water rushing over the side. It’s as if someone has built ground on top of a gigantic waterfall and we are standing on the very edge.

Just visible in the distance is the other side of the canyon. It has a matching waterfall and looks much the same as our side. If I were to risk the exposure it might be possible to make a run for the bridge that connects the two. It's a solid wooden one but it would be a big risk this early on.

I look behind me.

"Seven."

We are standing on the edge of a dark jungle.

"Six."

If I turned and ran I’d be out of sight in seconds. 

"Five."

But I need a weapon, whatever Harry says. A knife at the very least.

"Four."

It's stupid.

"Three."

Really, really stupid.   

I tense, ready to run.

"Two."

I focus on the first weapon in my line of sight. A knife, glints on the ground about halfway between me and the cornucopia.

"One."

BOOM.

I sprint from the podium, my eyes solely on the knife I'm aiming for. I hear other people running and a cut of female shriek to my far right marking the first kill of the games.

I jump over parcels and rucksacks and snatch up the knife easily. I then turn and realise my predicament – over half of the tributes are trying to loot the cornucopia and the ones already armed are attacking anything that moves.

_I have to get out…_

Another yell of pain, male this time. My heart is pounding as I’m suddenly frozen, unable to decide what to do. I’m trapped in the middle – the forest is behind me, the bridge is in front of me – and any second and I’ll be noticed by one of the careers.

There’s a set of bow and arrows resting by the cornucopia, if I moved quickly I could grab them, make it across the bridge and wait out the games by shooting anyone who tried to cross it. It would be difficult to manage by myself, but not impossible.

Perhaps later I might be shocked at my easy attitude to killing but right now it’s them or me and adrenalin is firing through my body.

I dart to snatch up the bow and arrows, realising too late that Wilkes, already covered in blood, is also running for it, blocking my path to the bridge.

I move on pure instinct. I need to outrun him and the bulky bow will slow me down, especially if I need to fight. If I can’t have it I’m not leaving it here.

I lob the bow towards the water, not even stopping to watch it slide over the edge. I hear Wilkes snarl but I’m already running back towards the jungle. He’s close behind me.

I feel a sharp blow to the back of my knee.

The adrenalin dulls the blow, though it’s almost certainly going to be a painful wound. I’m still running, almost back at the podiums now, and – because this might be my only chance - I pause long enough to snatch up a rucksack too.

I dart through the trees. Wilkes has stopped following me now, with the fight is still going on at the cornucopia running blind into the jungle is probably too much of a risk for him. I should stop and assess my wounds and my supplies, but I keep on going. I know that when I stop it’s going to be damn near impossible to start running again until I’ve sorted my knee.

\--

Eventually my body forces me to slow down. I stop in a small clearing that is mostly hidden by tall bushes. It’s as good a place as any.

A twig snaps off to my left.

I’m a quick thinker in an emergency, so I don’t panic. I’m calculating. It has to be one of the non-careers because otherwise they’d be at the cornucopia. That means that I’m more threatening to them because I’m the one with a weapon.

“Hello?” I say carefully. I hold the knife out in front of me so that they won’t be able to miss it. “Who’s there?!”

The bushes part slightly and Sarah wriggles through. “John?!”

I sigh in relief. I’d assumed she’d ran for it. She’s the only friendly face in the arena and if I try hard enough I can pretend I’m at home with her for a second or two.

Her eyes flicker to the knife that I’m still holding up.

“You aren’t going to… are you?” she says in a half joking, half nervous voice. For a second we stare at each other. How strange our relationship has become – we trust and then we suspect each other over and over every day.  

 “I’d rather be allies,” I say softly.

She gives a relieved smile. “Me too. It’s not like we’ve got anyone else.”

There’s an underlying current to what we’re saying; the words ‘for now’ are hovering over us. But there’s a good chance exposure, thirst, other tributes, or the nasty tricks the gamemakers invent for us will take us out long before we have to worry about each other.

“What happened to you?”

I gesture to my knee. “Running towards the cornucopia turned out not to be the wisest plan.”

“Looks like you’ve lost a lot of blood…”

I nod. My entire trouser leg is sodden and I can see the flickers of faintness in the corner of my eyes. “I don’t suppose you have any water?”

She smiles again. It’s strange to be standing in front of a smiling girl in a calm forest clearing when all around us people are fighting for their lives.

 “Why do you think I stopped here? Come see.”

She moves over to the bushes she appeared from and holds them back. On the other side is a small pond only a few feet wide but with enough water to last us for several days. The water is a little murky with plant life but neither of us will complain at that.

I gulp down handfuls of water as she begins going through the rucksack I picked up. She managed to grab a small package at the cornucopia; an empty water bottle, a tarpaulin, and a ball of string.

“This is pretty good – another water bottle, a blanket, six snack bars, matches… oh, brilliant! Bandages!”

I’m unable to believe my luck; without bandages the knee injury was going to make life very difficult. I set about cleaning the wound as best I can and bind my leg up. It still hurts like hell but there won’t be any long term damage.  

For the moment we’re safe as we can be. We’re hidden away and most of the attention will be on the cornucopia today so I doubt there’ll be game trickery just yet. This is probably going to be our only chance to acclimatise and catch our breath.

We set some traps with the string in the hope of catching something and then settle down to wait for the cannons signifying deaths in the arena. Normally the cannon happens as soon as a tribute dies but on the first day they wait until the initial fight ends. We won’t know who has died until the images of the dead are projected into the night sky.

“Do you know how many are dead?” Sarah asks.

I shake my head. “Two that I was there for, didn’t see who.”

Sarah sighs. “A lot more by now I expect.”

I shrug. There’s not much we can do about it, and for all the wringing our hands over the deaths, the more that die the better our chances are.

“We’ll know soon enough.”

About two hours later the first cannon fires. _Once, twice, three times, four, five, six… seven._

Seven gone. It’s now one against sixteen – one of whom is wrapped up in my arms and shivering a little.

At length the sky darkens and the heat seeps away from us. We decide against lighting a fire and instead wrap ourselves in the tarpaulin and blanket. I’m starving and weak but we’ve caught nothing and we’ll need the food more tomorrow. I keep a hold of my knife in case of unexpected visitors.

We’re waiting to find out who has died and – just as the stars become visible – the national anthem begins.

Sarah leans up to mouth two words.

“Hum it,” she breathes.

She’s never willingly joined in the national anthem in her life. I’m confused but I join in.

She must see the question in my eyes because when we’re finished she leans across again; “Because we’re hardworking, loyal, _proud_ Panem citizens.”

I don’t need a translation for that; she’s playing up to the sponsors. Getting a good sponsor can mean life or death in here. It’s smart - so smart - but it’s another reminder that she can play a duplicitous game.

The projections begin and we turn our full attention to them;

The first image appears in the sky is the tribute from District 3. Andy. Not surprising. The next is; it’s a career, Anderson from District 4. District 5 loses Edward Van Coon, and District 6 and 7 lose the two tributes called Violet (Hunter and Smith as they were referred to by commentators). Henry Knight is a loss to District 10 and District 12 loses its female tribute, Mary.

“All were pretty weak,” Sarah says. “Even Anderson wasn’t that much of a threat. We’re not really any better off. ”

I can see her point. The careers will focus on the weakest tributes for the next few days and with so many killed off early on attention will turn to us.

We both try (and mostly fail) to sleep. For the first time I wish there were Sleepers available.

\--

We rise at dawn and I check my wound while Sarah checks our traps.

“Nothing,” she reports. “I couldn’t even find berries – only poisonous ones. Thank god we’ve got the snack bars.”

The snack bars taste like carboard and don’t even begin to fill us, so we drink water to fill ourselves up. We plan to spend the day foraging and return here as soon as we find food.

The trip is frustrating in more ways than one. We move slowly in order to avoid alerting anyone nearby and to keep the strain from my leg; as a result our search takes an age and becomes increasingly painful for me. Even worse we quickly discover that none of the vegetation or berries are edible. We keep our ears strained for the rustle of animals or the calls of birds but hear nothing at all, not even the buzz of flies.

I’m also itching for us to move our camp. We aren’t that far away from the cornucopia and discovery seems very possible. I’m also worried we’re becoming complacent. We’ve seen very little violence and if there isn’t action soon the gamemakers are likely to create some danger for us.

BOOM

We hear the cannon as we head back to camp.

“I wonder who?” murmurs Sarah.

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

We’re nearly back at our campsite when Sarah grunts.

“Nothing,” she shrugs the pain away. “Just a little stomach ache.”

I frown. “Hunger?”

She gives me an indulgent smile. “Trust me John, I know what hunger feels like. This is probably nothing.”

It’s not nothing. In less than ten minutes she’s on her knees and vomiting up her meagre intake of food. She feels immediately better but I’m suddenly not feeling so well myself. Before we’re back at the campsite I’ve also vacated my entire stomach.

“The water?” she suggests.

I shake my head. If there was something wrong with the water we’d have reacted last night. “I think it might be the snack bars… it hitting us at the exact same time is weird.”

“But we need them! We’ve not found any other food!”

I help wrap her in the blanket. “I know, but we’ll move on tomorrow and look elsewhere.  My leg is feeling better now.” It hurts more than ever, but she doesn’t need to know that.

\--

Before we try for sleep the familiar music begins and an image of the sole casualty of the day appears in the sky.

_Dimmock, District 12._

Heartless as it is I’m disappointed it’s not someone with more skills.

\--

I wake up feeling sick but this time its hunger causing it. The last food I ate was a single snack bar yesterday and that didn’t stay down. It’s nothing that half the people in any district don’t experience on a daily basis, but I’ve been spoilt by fairly regular, if meagre food for too long. I’m tempted to risk the snack bars again but I can’t afford to weaken myself further.

I leave Sarah sleeping, slip the knife into my pocket, and begin a more thorough search of our area. I check our traps (without much hope) and turn up rocks looking for bugs. I even scrabble in the mud for worms. Nothing.

When I get back to Sarah she is awake and staring hungrily at the snack bars.

“It’s not worth it,” I chide.

“I know. You found anything?”

“Not so much as a spider.”

She gives a dry chuckle. “Do you know what I was scared of before I entered this place?”

I look at her askance.

She smirks. “Aside from the obvious, I mean. I was scared that bugs or snakes would crawl all over me when I slept on the ground. It’s a stupid thing to have worried about.”

We share a smile – we’re two industrial kids in a world we’ll never understand.

I finally voice my thoughts. “Do you think this is part of the games – no food, not even edible supplies?”

“It makes sense. I don’t know what they expect us to do. Turn to cannibalism perhaps?” Sarah pretends to size me up. “Half the work’s been done for me with that knee injury – your leg could fall off at any moment.”

“Let’s make that plan B,” I say and we both giggle.

“At least the careers are in the same boat as us for once. They’re going to be busy looking for-”

\--

That’s how suddenly it happens. I never finish the sentence.

A knife flies out of nowhere and strikes Sarah in the chest.

The force sends her backwards but doesn’t kill her instantly. I hear her whimper but I can’t go to her yet – the other tribute is still out there in the bushes and might come to collect their knife. They might be aiming another one at me.

My own knife is out and I wait for some movement from our attacker, but none comes.

A noise from Sarah. “John…”

It’s such a tiny sound, a mere puff of air. I kneel next to her knowing that these are her last seconds.

The knife is still sticking out of her chest but I don’t dare remove it. The sound of her breathing tells me that her rib is shattered and her lung is punctured. Her mouth hangs open as she tries to breath and her face, which had been tense, suddenly slackens.  

“John…”

“I’m here.”

Blood is pumping from her chest and her grey shirt is so saturated that the fuid is just sliding down in. Her eyelids are heavy, as if she’s merely sleepy.

“John…”

“I’m here,” I repeat. What else can I say? I can’t give her any real comfort, so I take her hand and rub at it with my own.

“John…”

“I’m here.”

\--

BOOM.

Another death in the arena and this time I know exactly who it was, and how she died.

One against fifteen now.

I hate myself for thinking it.

\--

A rapid voice startles me out of the semi daze I’m in.

“Don’t just stand there – take the knife from her chest before the game makers take it away with her.”

The tribute who is speaking crashes into the clearing. I lunge blindly at them with my own knife.

To my surprise no return attack comes. He gives me an almighty shove backwards instead, sending me to the floor and giving me time to see who it is.

“Oh don’t be so _predictable_.”

It’s Sherlock, just about the last person I expect to see. I’d wondered what he might be doing during my trudging searches for food with – with Sarah. I’d assumed he was with the careers.

He replies like I’ve spoken aloud.

“ _Please!_ Only a lunatic would form an alliance with the careers. For what little advantage you get you are essentially giving them a list of your strengths and weaknesses ready for them to turn on you. I don’t have many weaknesses but the ones I do have I don’t intend to share.”

He pauses as if considering. “At least not with the careers.”

I’ve frozen in place halfway between the floor and standing up. “I didn’t say anything about the careers…”

“You didn’t need to. And by the way, _I_ didn’t throw that knife. Happy?”

He moves towards Sarah’s body – _Sarah_ – and grabs the knife hilt. The noise it makes when he pulls it out of her chest can only be described as a wet slither, yet he seems unconcerned.

I glance him over to check for injuries. He’s in one piece and (aside from a little dirt) looks no different and no less aloof that he did before the arena.

“We better get out of here,” he orders. “And while we do that perhaps you might give some thought as to why the tribute didn’t also kill _you_.”


End file.
